Clare kept looking at the picture amazed. ‘This is where it all began,’ she said. ‘It’s amazing.’
Ella nodded. But not where it ends, she thought. 129
New York, December 1959
‘Come on, Papa, get dressed. We don’t want to be late for our guests,’ Patti was chivvying her father from his fireside. ‘Into your suit and new shirt. It’s cold outside so wrap up.’
‘Plenty of time yet,’ Angelo muttered, reluctant to get out of his chair. He didn’t want to go down to the docks to meet the Queen Mary from Southampton, even if Roddy’s relatives were on board. Why couldn’t he just stay here in the warm and let them all get on with it? It was bad enough they had to decamp to Patti’s house for a traditional Christmas in the coun-try. What a fuss they were all making.
Ever since their return from Italy in the fall, there’d been talk of nothing else but the va-cation, and who they met and what they did, and what a pity he hadn’t been able to join them. The house was full of fancy lace and expensive glass souvenirs. It was bad enough he didn’t go with them and now his heart was playing tricks again. Winter was coming and his bones ached. Did they want to kill him off, sending him down to the water’s edge? What he needed at his time of life was peace and quiet, not a house full of noisy kids and strangers who didn’t speak his language.
The harbour held nothing but bad memories. One ship was the same as any other. Why couldn’t they just pick him up on the way out to Springfield or, better still, leave him here to sulk?
Now he was bundled into the station wagon, piled with presents and food, all the festive fuss Kathleen had been cooking up. He caught her winking at him. ‘It’s gonna be a Christmas Eve to remember this year.’
What was so different from any other year? They’d eat too much, drink too much, get in-digestion, sleep it off and then it would be back to feet of hard snow for months. Much as he loved his wife and daughter, they sure were playing up today.
‘Have you shaved properly? We want you looking your best.’ ‘Huh!’ he snapped. ‘What’s so special about today? But if I catch my death standing at
the dock, then it’ll be one for your calendar right enough.’ ‘And a Merry Christmas to you, Papa,’ Patti laughed.
Ella and Clare hung over the rails waiting for the liner to make its way through New York harbour, staring up at the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, speechless at the sights before them. So much had changed since their return from Italy.
Clare was now reading History at Durham and on her Christmas holiday. Ella had re-turned to Lichfield knowing she would not be staying there much longer now she had found the other part of herself.
Celeste, Archie and Selwyn were thrilled by their discoveries, and Roddy and Patti, along with Kathleen, were being kindness itself, keeping the secret under wraps for the sake of the one man who would complete their story.
Ella had wanted to jump on a plane to meet him right away but there were commissions to fulfil and she had needed time to settle into her new identity and find out more about her heritage in private.
Her Italian lessons were proving useful. She’d sent the lace pieces for verification and for confirmation of what she already knew. Patti had sent Maria’s wedding veil, as further proof that they were made by one and the same person.
Ella had seen for herself the Titanic passenger list. There was no other Tuscan woman on board but Maria Bartolini with a baby daughter, Alessia Elisabetta, no one of the same age or description. To her delight she found she was younger by months than she’d first thought.
Piero Marcellini was being a good friend in all of this, translating her letters to Katerina and old Alessia, passing on her gifts and photographs taken of them all together. In fact, he was becoming far more than a friend to her but that was for the future, not now.
This was the moment she’d been waiting for. But as she hung over the side taking in all the sights and sounds of the busy waterway, she thought of that first voyage she’d made in a stranger’s arms, in borrowed clothes on the saddest of all arrivals back in 1912. How could they not pass close to the Titanic’ s last sighting without praying for all those lost souls, for her mother and her foster mother, and all the love that had brought them to this moment? What had been done by May had been done out of love and she’d long forgiven her, as she’d forgiven Anthony for leaving her.
That time was past. It had been an emotional journey and now it would reach a climax. Ella shivered at the thought of meeting her real father. She’d rehearsed it so many times, had practiced over and over in her head the words she would say.
Would Angelo be disappointed? Or confused or disbelieving? She hoped the shock would not be too much for him.
The story had been in the lace all along; finding who she was had taken almost a lifetime of strange happenings that threaded them all together. Captain Smith had saved a baby, May had taken her in and Angelo had never given up hope. Frank had sacrificed his life for Roddy’s freedom and had brought him to Patti: all these twisting threads made up her story and it had all begun with those little shoes.
Angelo stared up at the liner without emotion at first, but the smells of the dock, the oil and fumes, the gulls crying and the general bustle brought back such a terrible feeling of desolation. Why were they making him come here when they knew how much it distressed him? Why hadn’t these English visitors come by plane?
He stood between Kathleen and Patti, each with an arm in his, holding him up, his feet chilled as the passengers trickled out slowly from the arrivals hall. Passengers were wav-ing, smiling, rushing forward to greet their families just like all those years ago when he had stood alone in despair. At least this was a happier arrival.
‘Here they are, Papa!’
He saw a striking woman in a fur coat and a brilliant pink scarf, with a girl in a duffel coat – a pretty dark-haired girl with a ponytail, smiling as if she knew him. There was something about her smile that reminded him of someone, something warm and familiar.
‘Now, Papa, this is Ella and her daughter, Clare, from England. Ella has something for you.’ Patti pushed him forward.
The woman smiled as she pulled a little package out of her handbag. ‘I believe you have the other one to this,’ she said, looking into his eyes. ‘One shoe without the other is no use if you have two legs,’ she added.
Angelo fingered the shoe, puzzled, turning to Kathleen for support. ‘What is this? Why has she got my shoe?’
‘She hasn’t. Ours is at home. We brought Frankie’s shoe back from Italy, remember?’ Then he turned to the young girl, his heart thumping as he studied her features, as if
something long lost was coming into focus, a faded photograph coming into life. ‘She has Maria’s face and so do you. Is this true? How can it be true? Alessia? All these years I have hoped. Is it really you?’
Ella was smiling back. ‘I hope so . . . I think so.’ He felt her arms around him and tears on his cheeks. Patti and Kathleen stepped back.
Angelo turned to them for support. ‘You all knew?’ Kathleen smiled and nodded. ‘We wanted to make it special. It’s taken a lifetime to bring
you two together. Where better for you to meet than where it all began?’ ‘But how?’ he said. ‘How is this miracle happening?’ His two daughters took an arm each to escort him out into the winter light. ‘It’s a long story Papa. It may take some time.’
A Note from the Author
‘It is a rash man indeed who would set himself up as final arbiter on all that happened on the incredible night the Titanic went down ,’
wrote Walter Lord in his book, A Night To Remember
This story evolved from reading survivors’ accounts of their experiences in the lifeboats and afterwards. There were reports of Captain E. J. Smith’s rescue of a child in the water but nothing ever proven. Had this been so it might have mitigated the swift decline of his reputa-tion that made the unveiling of his statue in Lichfield such a contentious event in July 1914. The trai
l to find out more about the Titanic and its passengers took me from Liverpool’s National Maritime Museum, where I was able to view the very medals I describe given to the crew of the rescue ship, Carpathia , and much more, to the Titanic Historical Society of America’s Museum in Indian Orchard, Springfield, Massachusetts: a shrine to many intim-ate relics donated by families of passengers. It has a wonderful atmosphere thanks to the
owners Edward and Karen Kermuda.
I am grateful for the enthusiasm of so many Titanic aficionados who loaned books and ar-gued different theories as to what might have really happened if the mystery ship had come to the rescue. Thank you to my friend, David Croll, for sharing his books and ideas, to my son, Josh Wiggin for chauffeuring me up the Eastern seaboard and checking out some of the other American museums and helping me flesh out a brief visit to Akron, to my ever-patient husband, David, always ready with the camera, to Margaret Brothwell for guiding me re the history of Lichfield Theological College and all my Lichfield friends for their hospitality; researching is thirsty work!
Although this is fiction and my main characters are entirely fictitious, I did need the pres-ence of many real passengers, crew, cathedral clergy and relatives to have walk- on parts. The famous ‘unsinkable’ Margaret Brown and the Captain E J appear as does an imaginary visit to his daughter, Helen Melville Russell-Cooke (née Smith) with reference to her son, Squadron Leader Simon Russell- Cooke killed in 1944 and his twin sister, the late Priscilla Phipps.
In every case I have tried to adhere to what was known of the people involved. Of course there is no evidence that what I describe could have happened, but with some slight adjust-ments to their lives and itineraries there’s no reason why such events couldn’t have been possible either . However, any mistakes in the narrative concerning them are entirely my For further information about Helen ‘Mel’ Smith I am indebted to the article by John Pladdys in The Titanic Historical Society of America’s magazine, Commutator. Vol. 17.
1992. I am also indebted to the following books for specific information: The Man Who Sank the Titanic? The Life and Times of Edward J Smith , G Cooper, 2nd edition, Cotes Heath, 1998 ; Rubber’s Home Town , Hugh Allen; Lichfield in the First World War; The Di-aries of WE. Pead; The History of St Matthew’s Hospital Burntwood , David Budden 1989 ; Memories of A Cathedral City , Cuthbert Brown, 1991. Universal Aunts , Kate Herbert-Hunting, 1986; No Moon Tonight , Don Charlwood; The Cinderella Service: RAF Coastal Command , Andrew Hendrie ; A Small place in Italy , Eric Newby. On the U.S. Chaplains Corps: Soldiers of God , Christopher Cross, 1945. I would also like to recommend Lichfield Archive Office’s excellent collection of Titanic information where I read the account of the unveiling of the Captain’s statue in the Lichfield Mercury.
Further on the trail when lace became an important factor, I was helped by Audrey Pem-berton and the Settle lacemakers in understanding the process and later took a detour to Sansepolchro in Italy to visit its wonderful Lace Museum which was opened especially for me. Thank you to Leila Riguccini (President of Associazione Il Merletto nella citta del Piero) and Anna Nespoli. Their enthusiasm and help knew no bounds and despite me hav-ing only a little Italian to hand, they produced just the articles I needed and more. This visit was made possible by the generosity of my brother and sister-in-law, Chris and Cerys Wig-gin who placed their Tuscan home at our disposal.
So the story was drafted among the winter snowdrifts and shown to my editor, Maxine Hitchcock, who made some wonderful suggestions and encouraged me to pull out all the stops with her immaculate editing. Thank you to Jessica Leeke and all the team at Simon & Schuster, along with my agent, Judith Murdoch, for giving me the opportunity and chal-lenge to explore one of the great dramas of the twentieth century.
Leah Fleming.
Crete, 2011
Fleming, Leah - The Captain's Daughter Page 47
